A cloud of earth and smoke lingered below. Ron watched armored cars moving toward it. Helicopters hovered above the vehicles, but the capsule had already risen beyond their flight ceiling, eliminating the immediate threat of attack. Of course, there were still the missiles that had been used to shoot them down earlier. But now there was hope of evading them. Jeanne had correctly decided that climbing to a height out of the missiles' reach was their best initial strategy.

  Ron eagerly surveyed the planet's surface.

  The swampy area into which the capsule had fallen proved to be a small region. To the north, the smooth surface of a wide river gleamed. Groups of tree-like plants had formed solid thickets resembling a jungle. Sharp, bright yellow rocks protruded from the vegetation. To Ron's Earth-trained eye, they appeared artificial, as if someone had molded them from plastic and scattered them throughout the thicket.

  Ron filed the thought away for later investigation. "We need to examine those rocks."

  Beyond the jungle lay plains and the beginning of a mighty mountain range. Ron climbed out of the airlock, hanging over the abyss. The buildbot even grunted as it held him with its manipulator. If the capsule shook now, both of them would plummet.

  Stretching his neck, Ron tried to glimpse what lay to the west. But the marching engines generated a growing ball of blue light behind the stern of the capsule, seeming to illuminate half the sky—a characteristic effect of the ion engine in the atmosphere.

  Due to their rapid ascent, the capsule broke through the clouds in seconds, obscuring the planet's surface. Nevertheless, Ron could make out the deep blue of water to the west.

  "Dense cloud cover," Ron observed. "But that's good. The Donators like water."

  Ron closed the airlock and asked the buildbot to release him. Maneuvering between containers, he reached the nose of the capsule. Jeanne stood before the control panel, both hands gripping the levers.

  Normally, a huge projection panel would glow in front of the pilot, transmitting images from the cameras. Now Jeanne faced only the empty wall of the capsule, decorated with paint and rust. Tethered to the levers, she couldn't turn freely, forced to stare at the wall.

  Jeanne's new blonde hair was disheveled, with pebbles and twigs inexplicably stuck in it, as if they had gotten under her helmet. In places, her hair was scorched, but overall it still looked striking.

  "Well," Ron summarized, "we're flying west. I think there's a sea or an ocean in that direction."

  The pilot greeted him with a fresh round of accusations: "If you hadn't broken the flight computer, we wouldn't have to fly blindly."

  Ron gaped, momentarily at a loss for words. "You think it's my fault?"

  "Well, it wasn't mine, was it?"

  "You're the one who ordered me to find the power source! You told me to do whatever it took to save Trevor and Meirong's binary arrays. And now it's my fault? Come on, Grandma, that's just paranoid."

  "Don't call me grandmother, you puppy!" Jeanne snapped. "How was I to know that a supposedly talented engineer's hands grow out of his ass? Couldn't you have carefully saved the binary arrays without breaking everything?"

  Ron sighed. "I don't have the words."

  "But I do. Only you won't like them."

  "All right, I have a few choice ones too," Ron said angrily. "You behaved unprofessionally when you gave me that idiotic order. And now you want to make it my fault. How do you like those words, Ms. Chou?"

  Jeanne replied in an unexpectedly quiet voice: "I... didn't think at all when I gave the order."

  "Aha!"

  "I was in a panic! Don't you understand?" Jeanne tried to turn to Ron, but her hands remained connected to the controls. "Do you know what my post-arrival binary array integrity is? Eighty-two percent!"

  "Holy shit... that's off the charts."

  "Where did almost a quarter of my personality go? I don't even know if I'm still me."

  Ron tried to speak as gently as possible: "Believe me, Jeanne, to me you're still the same angry grandmother who taps me on the head at every opportunity. Even if you've lost some memories, they're certainly not the ones where you were an ironclad bitch."

  "Th-thank you," Jeanne's voice trembled.

  "And the way you dealt with those three bandits was amazing," Ron continued. "I don't know what kind of manuals you military types have, but you're exemplary. You were as beautiful as—"

  "Stop it, or I'll start to think you're hitting on me."

  Though Ron couldn't see Jeanne's face—she had her back to him—he guessed from the movement of her shoulders that she was worried.

  "What's going to happen to me?" Jeanne continued. "After all, every rebirth takes away a percentage of your integrity."

  "Not necessarily," Ron said firmly. "Integrity is lost only in an emergency rebirth. When the process occurs normally, with all safety protocols followed, the loss is reduced to insignificant fractions of a percent. In any case, it's too early to think about rebirths. We'd better find some normal colonists and buy orgmat from them, or I won't have enough power to build a base."

  Jeanne shrugged. "Speaking of which, I found something on the corpse of one of the natives. I think you should take a look at it."

  Ron raised a finger. "Technically, the remains of a synthesan can't be called a 'corpse.' After all, what doesn't live can't die."

  Jeanne took one hand away from the controls, causing the capsule to twitch. She slipped her hand into her satchel and pulled out some tools. "Anyway, wise guy, here are some Locusian toys for you to figure out. As I understand it, they don't fit on combat UniComs, but they're good for sucky engineers."

  But Ron didn't have time to examine the "Sucky Sucky and Fucky Fucky" tools. The capsule shook so violently that he flew back against the wall, barely managing to dodge the loose containers.

  "Hey, pilot!" he shouted. "Didn't you brag that you could fly a kite? Well, this isn't kite flying!"

  "It's not me," Jeanne replied. "It's the electromagnetic cannon."

  The strange thing was that the attackers had gotten off with a single blow.

  Jeanne switched the capsule to hover mode. The vehicle vibrated finely in place, as if eager to continue its flight. Disengaging from the controls, Jeanne removed her rifle from her back.

  "Open the airlock," she commanded.

  "Isn't it dangerous?" Ron hesitated. "Wouldn't it be better to fly farther away?"

  "Where? Without a computer, we're blind. They'll get us anywhere."

  Ron unlocked the airlock and instructed the buildbot to open the doors.

  Cold air rushed into the capsule—faces and containers were instantly covered in frost. Jeanne activated her helmet, covering her face, but a few strands of hair stuck out from underneath. She fastened herself with a cable to the special grooves on the ceiling of the capsule, designed for lowering containers.

  Ron turned to the buildbot. "Give me a hug, colleague."

  005 extended a manipulator and wrapped it around the engineer's waist. With a second manipulator, it grasped a beam in the wall.

  Both colonists looked out cautiously.

  The capsule hovered at an altitude where the horizon was clearly becoming an arc. In the deep blue sky, a patch of sunlight blurred. A sea of clouds moved below.

  A rustling and whistling sound filled the air. Above, rounding the roof of the capsule, an ion-jet descended, dazzling with the glow of its engine.

  The aircraft looked more primitive than its Earth counterparts, betraying its colonial origins. The ion-jet had rough, non-aerodynamic shapes, and the joints of the seams were prominent and crooked, as if they had been welded by hand. Nevertheless, this monstrosity flew at a decent altitude, with the rings of an electromagnetic cannon rotating menacingly in its nose.

  The ion-jet had no airtightness whatsoever, and its pilot, visible through the windshield, was clad in a pilot's UniCom suit.

  A message bloomed simultaneously in Ron and Jeanne's interfaces:

  — ? —

  Benny Shostakov (West Sea Alliance) invites to general conversation.

  Benny began without greetings: "Sorry, friends, but this is as far as you go. Turn your asses around now."

  "One thing is certain about Locustians," Jeanne said. "They always apologize when they cook up something disgusting."

  "Why should we?" Ron asked.

  "These are our alliance territories."

  "So?" Ron replied. "Hasn't the Colonial Constitution stopped working? Aren't you obliged to welcome new colonists?"

  "Friends, I'll certainly rejoice with you, and even discuss news from Earth over a bottle of whisky, which I hope you brought. But not until you turn back."

  "What about the colonist's constitutional rights?" Ron persisted.

  "Ask the bandits what they think of the Colonial Constitution. With the fall of the central government, there's no one left to enforce it."

  "Colleagues!" Ron exclaimed. "Have you all gone wild here? The Constitution is observed not because there is power, but because all reasonable people agree to observe it. It is reasonable people who create the power that forces all dissenters to observe the Constitution. Therefore—"

  "Ah, boy, leave your ideals on Earth," Jeanne interrupted. "We're burning up fuel while we're hanging here."

  "Sorry again, friends," Benny added. "But we're forced to defend our territories against Ramirez's gangs..."

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Oh, we've already met them," Jeanne said. "Interesting people."

  "We've just been transported from Earth," Ron explained. "We want to establish our own base."

  "And we'll help you with that," Benny interrupted. "But build it on the edge of our territories like everyone else."

  "Would you be willing to accept us into your alliance?" Ron asked. "We have improved instructions for subject-printers, innovative approaches to creating phenoms. Meirong, our production cycle engineer, has a knack for—"

  "Unfortunately, friends, the alliance's requirements for new members are too high. Besides, you are not the only newly arrived colonists. Do not overestimate your importance. I don't think you possess anything that the others do not."

  "I’m speechles" Ron said, scratching the glass of his helmet to scrape away the ice. "We didn't expect such a cold reception from the colonists."

  "And even less," Jeanne chimed in, "did we expect such a warm welcome from Ramirez's bandits."

  "That's normal," Benny replied. "All newcomers think someone needs them. But the reality is, friends, Locus has a life of its own. No one's going to run after you, fishing for bits of Earth wisdom. And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you'll become true Locusians."

  "And if we don't—" Ron began.

  "If you don't turn around, I'll shoot you down."

  "But what are we supposed to do?" Ron exclaimed. "Bandits on one side, inhospitable locals on the other."

  "Find a place to land, establish a base, register on the BATS server, and start surviving. Become locals yourself and then show as much hospitality as you like."

  "We need time to think, Benny."

  "Sorry, friends, but there's no time to think," the pilot cut off. "Remove the stealth mode from your flight computer. For some reason, I can't detect it. I'll dump a map of the region. It shows Alliance territories, independent settler bases, and suspected Ramirez gang staging areas."

  "Uh, uh, uh..." Ron stammered.

  "Our onboard computer is dead, Benny," Jeanne said.

  "How so? Then you're doing worse than you think..."

  A heavy silence fell. Ron scraped ice off his helmet's glass, Jeanne shook her rifle, and Benny apparently conferred with his superiors.

  "All right," he said. "You'll owe me."

  A drone detached from the hull of the ion-jet. The wind at this altitude was so strong that the drone barely traveled the short distance to the capsule. As it flew into the airlock, it collapsed to the floor. In a few seconds of flight, the drone's hull was crusted with ice.

  "Use this little guy as a computer core instead of your QCP. The drone's memory has the right maps and some information on all alliances and explored fields. I warn you, don't go into any alliance territories for resource extraction—we'll punish that in a heartbeat."

  "Thanks, Benny," Ron said.

  "Of course, the drone won't make a real computing platform, so don't try to process body rebirth requests on it—it won't handle it."

  Jeanne returned to the capsule's control panel, and Ron waved a hand to Benny and ordered the buildbot to slide the airlock shut.

  A parting message came through their helmets: "When you sign up for the server, don't forget to give me a like for helping you. And friend me."

  "You said the Central Government doesn't exist anymore," Ron said. "Why does the system of social equalization work? Who's overseeing it?"

  "It's a long conversation. There's plenty of information about it on the net. And if you want to hear the story from my lips, then so be it—when I come to visit to get my drone, we'll talk."

  The interface indicated the connection was gone. Jeanne set the capsule on a reverse course.

  The drone, like Benny Shostakov's clunky ion-jet, was manufactured on Locus. Extra protrusions jutted from the edges of its body, remnants from its creation in subject-printer. No one had bothered to trim the excess material. All the device's parts were poorly fitted and loose; Ron could stick his little finger into the gaps between some components.

  Ron's interface received data from the device:

  — Alliance-West, build 3.23. (s.n. 0054) —

  Unmanned Aerial Vehicle

  Manufacturer: West Sea Alliance.

  Engine type: ion-hybrid.

  Charge level: 6,577/10,000 energy units.

  Durability: 443 / 1,000.

  The description ended with a block of notes:

  For questions about service or purchasing other units, contact:

  @Luda Super, Manufacturing Engineer

  @Stuart Gonzalez, scout logistician

  @Mark Heikkinen, solver of any questions

  Attention: If you accidentally found this device or took possession of it illegally, the West Sea Alliance reserves the right to reclaim its property by any means necessary. And trust me, friend, you're not going to like those ways. In short, don't touch what doesn't belong to you.

  "I'm speechless," Ron said, examining the drone with a sneer. "Either the West Sea engineer has lost ninety percent of her mental integrity, or production speed is set to maximum, following the 'quantity over quality' scheme. Who needs a piece of junk like this anyway?"

  "A drone is a drone," Jeanne replied, glancing at the device. "You won't be able to—"

  The onboard computer was still caught in an endless reboot cycle. Ron had left it on, vaguely hoping it would suddenly boot up. Now, he finally powered it down. The Labsetec logo spun one last time before the project-panel went dark.

  Armed with a magnetic-force wrench, Ron sat down in front of the onboard computer case. "When we build a base and set up production, we'll have the best products on Locus! Meirong and I decided back on Earth that devices with our branding will be the most desirable on the entire planet, you'll see. We've developed an efficient production scheme..."

  "Meirong is as naive a fool as you are," Jeanne interrupted. "Ron, haven't you realized that Locus is not the place where you can realize your dreams?"

  Ron finished installing the computer core, then connected the project panel to it and rose to his feet. "Dreams can be realized anywhere. It's just a matter of desire."

  "Are you saying I don't have desires?" Jeanne snorted.

  "You've changed your old body for a synthesan one, but your life experience remains the same. Hence your pessimism and lack of faith in your comrades' strength. It's easier for me because I'm younger."

  "You know a lot, juvenile psychologist," Jeanne retorted sarcastically.

  Their banter, a remnant from their days at the training center, always teetered between jest and serious critique. Each tried to poke fun at the other, knowing that beneath these jokes lay genuine grievances.

  Ron started up the onboard computer. "Sometimes I think it would be good for you to lose fifty percent of your personality integrity. Maybe that would at least make you a little more optimistic."

  "Anyway, sage," Jeanne shrugged, effectively ending their exchange, "we don't have much fuel left. We'll be crashing back to the planet soon."

  Ron found a map in the drone's file system and unfolded it on the project panel. At last, they could evaluate the inhabited part of Locus.

  The area of the planet covered by the BATS system was divided into a grid of hexagons. It was hard to say how extensive the coverage was. White spots dotted the map, even in the center of the areas marked by the system. To the west, the map cut off abruptly at the West Sea, a deep blue mass labeled as such. Beyond that label stretched a blank field of empty hexagons.

  “Have they really never sailed beyond the sea in decades of planetary exploration?” Ron marveled.

  “Or Benny only gave you part of the map,” Jeanne suggested, “or deleted valuable information from it.”

  The entire western portion of the map, including the coastline, belonged to the West Sea Alliance. This was clear from the blue-shaded hexes and the alliance’s emblem—a crossed machine and a magnetic-force wrench, with three blue waves beneath. To the north and south, the alliance’s holdings tapered off, ending where the map itself ended. Only in the south, one orphaned orange hex indicated the start of the Free Farmers’ territory.

  The borders of the West Sea Alliance were framed by a network of green hexes. These were unlabeled, but Jeanne guessed they were territories either under the alliance’s control or preparing to join. In the center of the map, multi-colored hexes were scattered around belts of two or three adjacent hexes, marking the “economic zones” of the colonists’ bases.

  “This is insane,” Ron muttered. “What’s with these alliances? Why are people divided? And why are they clustered near the sea instead of developing the rest of the planet? There's room for half a century of exploration here—it's nonsense!”

  “You're quite the politician,” Jeanne retorted, “calling local order ‘nonsense’ when you don’t even know what’s going on.”

  “But it’s complete fragmentation, like the Middle Ages!”

  “Yeah, and there are even Eastern barbarians,” Jeanne smirked.

  The entire eastern part of the map was shaded in gray. Beneath that layer were numerous individual hexes and their economic zones, all circled in dotted lines, apparently marked as captured. The gray area was succinctly labeled: “Dumb Assholes.”

  “I'll bet,” Jeanne said, “that’s Ramirez’s fighters.”

  Somewhere along the border between the Alliance’s green zone and no-man’s-land, a flashing triangle marked the current location of their capsule.

  “Hmmm,” Ron said.

  “What, speechless again?” Jeanne teased.

  “I can assume one thing,” Ron replied, “this map shows that almost the entire continent of Locus is ours.”

  “How many continents are there?”

  “No idea, the map doesn’t show that. But this continent is roughly the size of Africa.”

  “What else can you see?”

  “That the production facilities on Locus have developed enough to build a spaceport in the capital and launch BATS support satellites.”

  Jeanne nodded. “It’s a good thing the rebirth servers no longer rely on ground infrastructure.”

  “You’re exaggerating. The BATS satellite network still depends on ground towers. If you rely only on satellites, binary replication will be slow and prone to errors.”

  “Okay, but what about resources? Where should we land?” Jeanne interrupted.

  Ron dimmed the political map layer and brightened the resources layer. The colonists silently assessed the map for several minutes.

  “Now I’m speechless,” Ron said irritably, scrolling through the map. “We’re doomed. Where can we land?”

  “All the good spots taken?” Jeanne asked.

  “All the bad ones too.”

  “Decide quickly—slow flight mode burns a lot of fuel. Any more, and we won’t have enough for the jump.”

  “Choosing a landing point is crucial,” Ron said cautiously, “you can’t just pick one and—”

  “We have to, boy! Besides, what difference does it make if we can’t fly far? Pick somewhere near the Alliance green zone but far from the gray barbarians. Benny’s no saint, but Ramirez’s slaves are worse.”

  Ron pondered the map, zooming in and out, then focused on a sandy-colored hex, scanning for resources and proximity to water or neighbors.

  “Shit,” he exhaled. “I’m not ready to take responsibility! I thought we’d land in an unoccupied but resource-rich area, build ourselves up, and become useful members of the community... like we trained for.”

  Ron hovered over the Free Farmers' hex. “What if—”

  “Make up your mind! Every second you delay shortens our range.”

  Ron sighed, then pointed to a hex in a sandy region. “Here. We’ll land in the Avlid Desert.”

  Jeanne’s tone shifted. “You sure? Not many settle there, and for good reason.”

  “But there are resources nearby to start building.”

  “Yes, but... it's a desert.”

  “You just told me to make a decision. This is it—now, do your part.”

  Jeanne frowned. “Why not closer to the Alliance?”

  “What if they don’t want new neighbors? They might force us out of their economic zone.”

  “We wouldn’t have enough fuel to come back.”

  “Exactly. We’re in no position to risk a conflict with the locals. We’ll build up, get stronger, and then they’ll be more cooperative.”

  Jeanne tightened her seat belt. “All right, engineer—heading to the desert.”

  Ron raised an eyebrow. “Sarcasm?”

  “Nope. Good job! Not everyone could find a desert on this green, wet planet.”